


A Problem of Concentration

by wibblyR



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Kinda, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblyR/pseuds/wibblyR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre are teachers. Grantaire and Courfeyrac are students. Guess what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Problem of Concentration

**Author's Note:**

> Written a little over a year ago for [Lauren](http://bobgaudio.tumblr.com)'s birthday  
> This takes place in France; “terminal” is the last year of high school (but Courfeyrac and Grantaire are both 18, so not underage). LB means Grantaire and his class are in the literary sector (if it had been in science, it would have been SB, etc.). The teachers of a class do trimestrially reunite and the one in this fic is the second reunion so it’s the end of February.

Enjolras is pissed. Well, for an unusual reason, that is. At 6pm takes place the trimestrial reunion for the class Terminal LB, of which Enjolras is the head teacher as well as history teacher. It’s been 6pm for ten minutes now. Combeferre is their philosophy teacher and he is late.

Enjolras and Combeferre know each other very well, since they went to high school together, and Enjolras is not gonna keep himself from dragging Combeferre to the reunion by the ears. His steps echo in the hallway of the second floor. 212, 214, 216… And there, the room 218, that’s normally the last room in which Combeferre taught today. Enjolras tucks his blond locks, become wild in all the scurrying he did across the whole building, behind his ears, and turns the door handle firmly. He’s only half-surprised to see it’s not locked – one time a cleaning lady found Combeferre asleep in a room (which gave her the fright of her life).

However, when he catches a glimpse of naked flesh, he closes the door as quickly as he opened it, but not without leaving the slimmest gap to see exactly what’s going on. Strangely, his eyes first fall on Combeferre’s thin black rimmed glasses, discarded on a desk, but soon he’s looking at Combeferre’s bare back, sweating and writhing, further in the back of the room. His belt is unfastened and the only thing keeping his pants from falling is the curve of his arse – and the calves locked around his hips. Combeferre has his hands on a man’s naked thighs, a man who’s propped up on a desk and whose slender arms are slung tight over Combeferre’s shoulders, nails scraping his back and the damp brown curls plastered on Combeferre’s nape. Enjolras can’t help but think – those were his fingers, once. He can see the top of a disheveled black-haired head, forehead pressed into the crook of Combeferre’s neck. Enjolras squints to try to see who it is, then almost gasps when a particularly vicious thrust of Combeferre makes the unknown man tilt his head back to moan. It’s at this moment that Enjolras can put his finger on what was nagging in the back of his head when he noticed the juvenile anatomy of Combeferre’s lover : it’s not just a man, it’s a young man ; a student. Actually, it’s one of the students of the class Terminal LB. Courfeyrac, if he remembers well : a tuft of jet-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, a good student although he has a cheeky way about him. Seeing him not smiling is actually near shocking. Enjolras, as soon as he has identified the man, finishes closing the door without a sound, the image of Combeferre’s tense muscles and Courfeyrac’s slack open wet mouth still vivid in his mind. He presses his lips and sighs through his nose, marching down the corridor back to the reunion room. He’ll just say he didn’t find him. Oh, Enjolras will talk to Combeferre about it, but it isn’t his place to judge him. Not at all.

-

« Grantaire, the lesson is taking place in this room, not outside. »

Grantaire averts his eyes from the window and looks up at Enjolras like it pains him. He has a hazy sort of gaze, like he’s looking right through him. Enjolras glances down at the doodles scribbled on Grantaire’s notes that Grantaire is nonchalantly but purposefully hiding with his hands, and snaps his fingers in front of Grantaire’s crooked nose.

« Focus. »

« Sorry », and he seems sincere.

Enjolras walks back to his desk and resumes the lesson, not before telling Éponine to stop trying to communicate with Grantaire. He keeps an eye on Grantaire until the bell rings, surprised that for once he has come out of his dream state for a long period of time to actually listen to the lesson, although he intently doesn’t watch Enjolras.

Enjolras worries about Grantaire ; despite the fact that he almost constantly does nothing but doze off in the back of the room and is the first to stir trouble when the class is a bit restless (or when the holidays come near), Grantaire is a very good student. Enjolras always has to remove a few points on the grades of his essays for his near-pathological sarcasm, but other than that, Enjolras is always stupefied to see that he can study, and really well at that – when he puts his back into it, that is. And here is the problem : Grantaire seems utterly devoid of motivation, which is a great loss for the class, from Enjolras’s point of view. If only he would participate ! Enjolras knows that not everyone is as enthusiastic about history as he is, but he’s sure that if Grantaire had some passion, he would shine in class.

And that’s why, one day, Enjolras asks Grantaire to stay for a talk at the end of their last hour of class for the day – a Friday, Enjolras remembers.

« Grantaire, I know this is not the first time I ask this of you, and I sincerely hope it will be the last, but I would like you to make some efforts of concentration. » Enjolras has rolled up his sleeves, crossed his arms, is leaning his hip on his desk, and has opened the first few buttons of his shirt, letting some stray strands of golden hair stick to the end-of-day sweat of his collarbones. Grantaire finds it very hard to make some efforts of concentration.

Enjolras takes a paper out of his suitcase. “I’ve noticed a pattern. Generally, your homework is excellent, but every time you have to do something in class, the result is severely disappointing." Enjolras waves the paper. "I don’t think it’s a problem of studying, since we both know you’re capable of that, so what is the problem ? Are you not comfortable in this class ? You don’t have these issues, at least not as dramatically, in any other class than mine – your art teacher says you’re brilliant. Is there a problem with me ?”

Grantaire wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans and scratches nervously the back of his head, fingers getting tangled in the mess of his hair.

“No, there is no problem with you, sir”, he mutters. “You are a very good teacher.”

“Then what ?”

Grantaire looks to the ceiling. There’s no other way around it, is it ? He’s been cornered and from now on being in this class, in Enjolras’s presence, will be a hundred times more awkward.

“Well… sir, it’s just that you make it hard to concentrate. For me.”

Enjolras squints and opens his mouth, then closes it when he understands. He stands there for a moment, stricken, and the long silence causes Grantaire to shift from one foot to the other.

“Uhm”, finally says Enjolras. “I’ll bear that in mind. You can dispose.”

Grantaire doesn’t need to be told twice and rushes away from the classroom. Enjolras sags against his desk.

The next time they see each other is on Monday and Enjolras has all week-end to think about Grantaire’s declaration. There was something endearing to it, he can’t help but think. The only thing keeping Grantaire from being an excellent student is the fact that he’s in love with his teacher. Well, that and the fact that he’s a hopeless dreamer.

How long has this been going on ? Grantaire’s been like this since the start of the year. More importantly, how long will this last ? Crushes on teacher happen all the time and they go as quickly as they come. The problem is that the end of the year is approaching with great haste and with it comes the baccalauréat, and he can’t let Grantaire ruin his results and his future because of a stupid crush. His anxiety about it increasing more and more with time, Enjolras summons Grantaire at the end of the class again as soon as their first class on Monday is finished.

“Grantaire”, he sighs, “I’d like to help you but I don’t know how. I don’t want to belittle your feelings, but can’t you push them aside for the sake of your exams ?”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Enjolras frowns.

“… Sir”, Grantaire adds.

Enjolras pushes his hair back. “Is there nothing I can do to help you ?”

“Apart from not existing, no, sir. I’m in love with you. You can’t help it and neither can I.”

This sends a sting to Enjolras’s heart. He is tired of this, is tired of the unfocused gaze Grantaire casts on him.

“Look at me !”, he says with more anger than he expected, which surprises both him and Grantaire, who snaps out of his trance-like state. His eyes widen for a bit, then he sets his jaw and a hard look makes his eyes glint. Enjolras has the impression that it’s the first time they’re looking at each other.

“Actually, there is something you could do, sir.”

And Enjolras sees Grantaire raising his hands to place them on Enjolras’s jaw, he sees him leaning in, but he still chooses to close his eyes and he feels every inch between their mouths disappearing until finally Grantaire presses his lips to his, lightly, for just a few seconds. When it stops, Enjolras carefully looks only at the floor as he says, “You’re going to be late. Go.” He watches Grantaire’s retreating back, his silhouette hunched. He doesn’t see Grantaire flicking his tongue on his chapped lips, still tasting the silk-smoothness of Enjolras’s on them.

In the day they pass each other in the hallway and Enjolras’s heart pounds fast as they lock gazes with each other, Grantaire’s dark eyes intent, as if daring him to pretend having forgotten what happened. Enjolras finds himself flustered by Grantaire’s sudden intensity and he keeps forgetting how to breathe at the memory of Grantaire’s face leaning closer to his, the sun making his closed eyelids shimmering red, the careless stubble, the mole on the side of his nose, the wild black curls on his wide forehead. Enjolras wrote him off too quickly as a simple student, forgetting that he’s also a man – he’s 18 years old, Enjolras realizes as he remembers his birth date. That night, Enjolras has a hard time finding sleep. He keeps tossing relentlessly in his bed, thinking about Grantaire, about how Grantaire wants him, about the hunger written on Grantaire’s face as Enjolras watches him finally revealing the passion that he wanted to find in him. A heat spreads over and over from Enjolras’s head to his toes, and he wishes he could go back to the beginning of the year, when he thought of Grantaire as just another hopeless case, instead of thinking of him as a desired person. His treacherous mind recalls his first time with a man, in high school, with now fellow teacher Combeferre, and replaces the latter by Grantaire. Enjolras curses himself.

They don’t see each other again before the last hour of class of Wednesday, just before noon, and Grantaire’s heart leaps in his throat when Enjolras calls him at the end. Several persons cast him suspicious looks, including Eponine and Bahorel. When no one but Enjolras and Grantaire are left in the classroom, Enjolras goes to lock the door, and Grantaire sees the trembling in his hands. Enjolras stays a moment head bowed, and then turns to face Grantaire, his hand extended to him, and he says, “Grantaire.”

Grantaire crosses the few feet that separates them in a heartbeat and kisses him, and Enjolras is kissing him back, and it makes him want to devour him. He gets his hands in Enjolras’s long blond hair like he always wanted to and nips his bottom lip, red and as delicious as a cherry. Enjolras has his hands on Grantaire’s neck, his fingers caressing the hair on his nape, but they leave it to unzip Grantaire’s hoodie and take it off him. He starts kissing Grantaire’s stubble, which prompts Grantaire to kiss Enjolras’s jaw, then his neck, sucking on the strained muscles below his ears. Enjolras lets him ; more than that, he gets his hands under Grantaire’s t-shirt, thumbs digging at his hips, fingers creeping under the waistband of Grantaire’s trousers. Grantaire stops what he’s doing, breathing heavily and blinking rapidly.

“Wait”, he says.

“It’s fine”, Enjolras answers with an almost-smile.

He goes to his suitcase, rummages in it, takes a plastic bottle, and shows it to him. Grantaire gulps.

“You prepared this ?”

“I wanted this”, Enjolras stresses.

Hands shaking, Grantaire starts undoing the buttons of Enjolras’s white shirt. He glances at Enjolras’s androgynous face, who’s looking down to open Grantaire’s fly, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, his feminine features locked in concentration, his teeth worrying at his flushed and plump bottom lip. Grantaire doesn’t stop himself from kissing him again, and this time he tastes Enjolras’s tongue with his own. It’s sloppy but they only stop so that Grantaire takes off his t-shirt, Enjolras’s shirt having been pushed to his shoulders. Grantaire can’t stop touching the peach-like skin, his tongue soon following his hands on Enjolras’s pale torso. Enjolras throws his head back, a content hum slipping from between his lips, his hands raking Grantaire‘s hair. He then places them on each side of Grantaire’s head to stop him as he starts sucking on a nipple, and he bends to remove his shoes and socks, then his trousers, then his pants.

When he’s back standing normally again, he sees Grantaire has done the same, and both their breath gets caught in their throat at the sight of each other. Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders, red with spots scars, and Grantaire slips his hands under Enjolras’s thighs, marveling at their softness in Enjolras’s ear, and he lifts him to sit on the teacher’s desk. Grantaire takes the bottle of lube on it, uncaps it and squirts lube on his hand, then, since Enjolras had extended his palm upwards, on Enjolras’s. Grantaire watches him carefully lean back, putting the heel of his foot on the border of the desk so he can pass his arm under his leg. He enters a slick finger in his own arsehole and moans, and Grantaire grabs his already half-hard cock to coat it with lube, his chest heaving with lust-filled air. Then he joins a finger to Enjolras’s, the two movements tearing a strangled sound from Enjolras’s throat. Enjolras closes his eyes and grabs Grantaire’s shoulder with his free hand, casting his head down, his long hair falling in front of his face. Grantaire pushes it back, shushing him, kissing his sweaty brow. Enjolras then shakes silently as they both prepare him.

He ends up removing his fingers and putting both his arms around Grantaire’s neck, elbows on his shoulders and nails carving half-moons between his shoulder blades. He utters a slurred “C’mon”, and moans again at the raw and callous feeling of Grantaire’s hands on his arse as Grantaire lifts him up to align his cock with Enjolras’s wet hole. Grantaire enters Enjolras in a slow and careful thrust, Enjolras’s nails a sharp pain in his back, but he’s too busy reveling in the sight of Enjolras’s flushed face, how he’s biting his swollen bottom lip to drown out curses, even more erotic than in his wildest wet dreams, to really pay attention to it. Grantaire starts to thrust more rhythmically, Enjolras’s slender limbs coming to wrap themselves around Grantaire naturally. They kiss again and again, sometimes missing each other’s mouth, and so they kiss each other’s nose too, and cheekbones, and damp temples, and jaw. Grantaire bends forward to suck bruises on the thin skin stretched over Enjolras’s adam’s apple, and collarbones, and ribs, even as he continues to fuck Enjolras relentlessly, and the red blotches match the feverish blush on Enjolras’s cheeks.

Grantaire presses his face in the crook of Enjolras’s neck, the pressure of Enjolras around his cock becoming unbearable. His thrusts become more frantic and he only has the time to remove himself before he comes all over Enjolras’s inner thighs. He doesn’t let himself pause before putting Enjolras more comfortably on the desk and grabbing his cock with his left fist to pump it. Enjolras bites his knuckles, but Grantaire takes his hand and kisses it, letting his tongue wander between his fingers, and Enjolras can’t help the choked sounds, the desperate whimper and finally the helpless cry that come out of his throat when he comes. Enjolras and Grantaire are both breathing soundly, limbs still trembling and gripping onto each other. They’ve held gazes for so long that looking anywhere else seems impossible, and in this instant, Grantaire knows that he still will have hard time concentrating in history class, but for an entirely different reason.


End file.
